


Roleplay Askbox

by saucyspinach



Category: One Piece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24906700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saucyspinach/pseuds/saucyspinach
Summary: Answers to asks from Tumblr
Comments: 5





	Roleplay Askbox

###  **1) @someidioticurl asked:**

Flynn placed a tray on a floor beside Captain's room. A fresh cup of coffee with a 'Captain' sticky note and a small bowl of celery sticks and strawberries with a <3

###  **Answered:**

It was hardly the strangest assortment of items littered outside his door – the most baffling being a pair of knitting needles, a goose egg, and a bottle of lotion – but the coffee, strawberries, and celery sticks came close. Law peeled off the sticky notes and held them close to his face. ‘Captain’ and a symbol of a heart.

Law’s thoughts immediately went to a secret admirer. A love confession? From a member of his crew? Which one? It was no secret they fanboyed (and fangirled, in the case of Ikkaku, though frankly, she never joined in the crew’s occasional showers of adulation bestowed upon him) over him – and it was partially a secret that Law relished their admiration. Yet, none of the crew had ever been this outright about their feelings, professing their love so unabashedly. Law was inclined to believe it was a prank, because that seemed more plausible than “love”, or perhaps, it was Bepo who left the tray, the heart symbolising his friendship – only, Bepo would knock and make his presence known. Bepo wouldn’t resort to furtiveness and Bepo’s handwriting wasn’t _that_ neat.

Law stooped down and stuck the notes onto the tray before carrying it into his room, setting it down on his desk. He eyed the strawberries and celery next, picking up a berry and examining it up close with suspicion. He was not strictly a vegan or on a diet, and thus, there had to be other reasons for the fruit and vegetable selected for him. No doubt, the coffee was for him to enjoy, but there had to be deeper meaning to the other gifts. Law racked his brains for all the knowledge he had acquired on strawberries and celery.

What was that he’d read? Strawberries were a symbol for Venus, the Goddess of Love. Strawberries were red and almost heart-shaped, all the more signifying one’s love for another. According to a legend, cutting a double strawberry in half and sharing it with another meant both would fall in love. He remained incredulous about that, but perhaps his secret admirer differing beliefs. Wasn’t there something about dreaming about strawberries portending forbidden desires? A relationship between a captain and their crewmen, would undeniably fall into that category. Of course, strawberries were also viewed as symbols of purity in some places, and happiness in others. What did that mean – did this secret admirer promise to take his purity away in exchange for happiness? Or were they requesting he defiled their purity? Curious.

Then there were the celery sticks – puzzling. Celery, from what he’d read, was associated with death, used as garlands for the dead, to show one’s love for the deceased. Celery, an essential part of burials, adorned graves and crowned the dead. That didn’t make sense, for he wasn’t dead yet. Maybe part of him was, and had been dead for over a decade, but he couldn’t tell if the celery then was meant to be insulting… Yet, wasn’t celery also considered an aphrodisiac said to stimulate a man’s virility? Jesus Christ. Goodness gracious. This secret admirer was truly brazen.

Law was eighty percent convinced this was either a salacious gift, or a very naughty prank. Both possibilities stupefied him. He plopped himself down onto his chair and stared at the tray. He figured he might as well consume and enjoy the gifts, rather than let them go to waste. He sipped on the coffee, enjoying the warm bitterness which was to his liking, and bit into the strawberries, tasting their sweetness in contrast, before munching on the celery sticks. Satiated, he carried the tray out and subtly asked around if anyone had seen who had left it.

Uni pointed him to Clio, who pointed him to Jean Bart – and they both engaged in a very awkward conversation with Jean Bart looking flustered, and Law mistaking that as guilt, which elicited in him a twinge of apprehension. Law hastily sidestepped him and decided he would pretend that talk never happened. He made his way to the kitchen, and asked if anyone had been in there slicing celery up earlier. Juri mentioned glimpsing Flynn preparing some coffee a while ago, and Law got his answer. He spent several minutes contemplating the sincerity of Flynn’s gesture. He wouldn’t put it past Flynn to prank him, yet Flynn had never expressed a liking of this nature for him.

Law was heartless, but not _that_ heartless that he wouldn’t reciprocate.

The next day, Law left a note on Flynn’s bunk: _‘Meet me on the deck tonight, midnight. – Captain’_

When the clock struck midnight, should Flynn make his way to the deck, he would find, in the middle of the floor, a tray sitting innocently, containing a mug of hot chocolate (still warm), two plums, and a bunch of carrots (unpeeled, unsliced). Attached to the tray were two sticky notes: ‘ _Flynn_ ’ and an anatomically accurate drawing of a heart. The captain himself seemed absent from sight, though he lurked, hidden behind a corner, peering out just barely with watchful eyes trained on Flynn.

* * *

###  **2) @lizardmuses asked:**

Emil felt spooky and was running around, giving away Halloween-ish gifts. The whole crew got cookies shaped like ghosts, bats, and cats but Law got a set of whiskey glasses - the outside was shaped like normal cylinders but inside was shaped like a human skull.

###  **Answered:**

A flurry of excitement awaited Law in the mess hall that rang with a cacophony of voices, the culprits gathered around a long table, heads bent low, hands criss-crossing each other’s and dipping into several glass jars. The aroma of cookies wafted over to where Law paused in the doorway, watching the crew as they feasted on the cookie buffet, their heads bobbing with appreciation, mouths busy chewing and chattering, spraying crumbs here and there, now and then cutting each other off to groan in blissful satisfaction, their eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. Even Jean Bart closed his eyes for seconds to savour the delectable richness of the cookies. They wolfed down cookies like ravenous ghouls feeding on fresh corpses. Gauging from their appetite, Law surmised that Emil had played cookie Santa – except she was a slim, if muscly, Santa, doling out cookies rather than consuming them. Though, had Law stumbled upon a jar of Emil’s cookies whilst wandering through the woods, he was confident he could recognise the scent of Emil’s baking, just as his keen sense of smell could detect a whiff of bread hidden in the same room.

The crew did not notice Law’s approach, for they were engrossed in sampling every flavour and shape of cookie (as though the shape changed its taste), then marvelling over the variety of shapes and flavours, comparing cookies like children comparing gifts received at Christmas. Finally, they exchanged opinions about the flavours and shapes in the professional tones of food connoisseurs, then they each voted for their favourite, and bickered over which was the tastiest cookie. Law stood at the head of the table, his presence disregarded. He eyed the cookies that had possessed his men – the baked treats looked decorated for Halloween, which was not for another month. He ought to know when it was Halloween; the children would be sure to remind him. Why was Emil celebrating Halloween early? Did she…not intend to live another month? Granted, Emil was always suicidal, to an extent, but if she intended to kill herself, would she go on a baking spree? Was it a parting gift?

Law questioned the crew on Emil’s whereabouts, but he might as well have been talking to himself, for they ignored him in favour of enthusing over the cookies: _This one has got almonds in it! Gooey chocolate chips! What a delicious buttery flavour! Oh, I have never tasted such sweet sinfulness! Lord, forgive me!_ Law had to ask Bepo, who usually was alerted to Law’s presence the second before Law stepped into a room – they both did, their senses highly attuned to detecting each other’s presence, but Bepo had been drugged into a stupor by the fishy treats he munched on. It appeared no one had seen Emil after she’d delivered the cookies and ran off. Law left the children to gorge themselves silly and started for his room, wondering if Emil had left him something – a parting gift? A note? Would Emil inform him of any intention to take her life? He doubted so; they weren’t exactly friends – neither would openly declare themselves to be, at least, or so he thought. He wondered if she would leave him Bor, but being trapped underwater for weeks wasn’t exactly ideal for Bor’s well-being.

Law remembered the last time Emil had left him a jar of cookies hanging from a plunger stuck outside his window, and half-expected to find another. Disappointment pricked him and he frowned when there were none. Then he turned and spotted the two whiskey glasses sitting on his desk – they weren’t there in the morning. He’d missed Emil, apparently; she’d snuck in and out without his knowledge. He picked up a glass, and upon closer inspection, his jaw dropped, though he gripped the glass carefully. He raised the glass to his face and tilted it at different angles. The same set of whiskey glasses he’d been eyeing in the shop, unable to decide if they were worthy to join his collection of skull memorabilia, for he could identify a number of inaccuracies in the design of the skulls. Inaccuracies aside, as a diehard skull fanatic, and self-proclaimed reaper, Law was thrilled, the gift lighting a spark in his glazed eyes. How generous of his nemesis, Satan. It was certainly one of the finest gifts she gave him, although that fluffy beanbag chair came a close second, followed by the plague doctor mask. The toast cushion he couldn’t say he was a fan of, and had donated it to one of the crew.

Law set the glass down on his desk, beside the human skull paperweight, skull wax stamp, skull candle holder. He stepped back and scrutinised the glasses with approval – they complemented the gloomy décor of his room. Until he found a skeleton worthy of sharing his closet, metaphorical ones would suffice. Law dug out a mirror, placed it on the desk. Having acquired rum from the kitchen, he filled both glasses, watching intently as the dark liquid filled the skulls, and sat down in front of the mirror. He lifted a glass, toasted his reflection, and tipped the glass to his lips. He imagined he was guzzling down the blood of his enemies and felt absolutely wicked, top-of-the-world sinister. Allowing himself this rarer moment of indulgence, he downed both shots, and sighed with pleasure. His thoughts strayed back to Emil, questioning the motivation behind her gift. Why two glasses? Was she inviting him for a last drink? Of course, this was assuming Emil did want to kill herself. He hoped not, because he wasn’t sure he would stop her – he doubted she’d want him to stop her. This was Emil they were talking about. She wouldn’t want his interference, let alone his help. Ultimately, he didn’t offer help to those reluctant to accept it. Besides, it wasn’t like he could stop Emil, short of chaining her up, if she truly set her mind to it.

The next day, Law went shopping, then he took the whiskey glasses, wrapped in cloth, and a bottle of whiskey, to the Caramel in search of Emil. Whether she was in or out when he arrived that night, he invited himself in, and set the whiskey bottle and glasses down on the coffee table. He left his gift for Emil in her room: a pair of skeleton gloves (he remembered the skeleton hoodie she had, and thought she needed gloves to match), with the skeleton designs embossed so that if she ran her fingers over it, she might be able to feel out the design; and a pair of leather fingerless gloves decorated with round studs, and with metal skulls over the knuckles. He hoped she would be kind enough not to punch him while wearing it.

“Drink?” he asked, if she was in. Otherwise, he sat on the couch and waited until she came back. Per her agreement, if she answered him, he poured whiskey into both glasses and slid one towards her. He scrutinised Emil, searching for signs of anything amiss, anything uncharacteristic, drawing in a deep breath, as though such a thing like despair could be sniffed out in the air. “So, what’s the occasion?” Law asked, imbuing his voice with suspicion to override any traces of concern. “Why all these…gifts? Are you leaving?” 

* * *

###  **3) @someidioticurl asked:**

Ask Emil @ Law because of Bugs Bunny:

Upon entering Law's room (without knocking of course) Emil pulled a carrot out of her hoodie pocket, made an act of wiping it on her sleeve and then leant against Law's desk. Emil smirked and - with a loud crunch - took a bite of the carrot. "What's up, Doc?"

###  **Answered:**

Law looked up from his reading at Emil’s hare-brained scheme to demand his attention. He reached under his desk, groped around in the drawers, until his hand identified the longest object that remotely resembled a rifle. Law whipped it out and pointed the tip of the baguette in Emil’s face. Alas, it didn’t have the effect he intended, so he ended up smacking her upside the head with the cold and stale bread, though he was considerate with the amount of strength he applied. Couldn’t have crumbs on his desk. Law stood up, stepped behind his chair, and brandished the baguette as though it were a lightsaber. He scowled.

“You- Did you put this here?” Now not only would his drawer smell of bread, there was bound to be crumbs in there as well. Bread always left crumbs behind, couldn’t keep their crumbs to themselves. Law sighed, and thrust the baguette at Emil’s chest. “Trade you,” he said, stealing the carrot from her hand. He took a bite – with another loud crunch – and chewed. Crunch, crunch, crunch. “So, what brings my dust bunny here? Bad hare day?” Crunch, crunch. “Or does the rabbit want to be hunted?”

* * *

###  **4) @rping-with-tea-and-biscuits asked:**

While Law was away, Emil waltzed into his room, offered Corazon Jr a handful of lettuce leaves and then set out to what she came to do: super glue a few dozens of donuts all around his bed. Revenge was sweet, after all. Having some extras left, she glued them to the desk too, though she shifted important looking files away first. Then she took out a black lipstick she had bought for this occasion and to make sure Law knew who's done that, she wrote with it 'Your Satan' on the door.

Done with all that, she pocketed the lipstick, waved bye at Corazon Jr and left

###  **Answered:**

It was night when the captain returned, and a moment later that he plodded back to his room, his hair damp and tousled, a towel draped over his shoulders. Steam rose from the mug of coffee in his hand. The look in his eyes was one keenly expectant of a short rest, his shoulders drooped from the day’s labour that left him weary, but content. Always satisfying when the day culminated in an impromptu operation that doubled as an evening workout. He had even worked up a sweat.

Uni stopped him along the passageway. “You missed Emil,” he said, munching on a donut.

“No, I don’t.” Law was quick to correct him with a sharp look.

“No, she dropped by earlier.”

Slight apprehension prodded at him and Law’s eyes widened a fraction. Emil never stopped by for no reason, and it was usually a toss-up whether the outcome would be regrettable or otherwise. Brows scrunched up on Law’s face. “Did she say what she wanted?

“No, but she left looking like she got what she came for.”

Law eyed Uni with lifted brows and a questioning stare, but Uni had nothing more to disclose on the matter that could hint at what Law ought to expect. Law stared at the frosted donut pinched between Uni’s fingers.

“The last of its kind,” Uni said, gripping the donut possessively. “But I’ll give you half, if you want.”

Law dismissed the donut with curt thanks and stepped around Uni. He grasped his mug and inched towards his room, feet padding quietly down the corridor, his face and posture the hardened demeanour of a soldier walking into an ambush. He reached his room, and paused, pressing an ear against the door. Silence. Perhaps he was overreacting; the last time she visited, she’d left him a gift of whiskey glasses, after all. A breath exhaled, a steady hand on the doorknob, he opened the door, and recoiled, ducking back like a vampire to sunlight, at the noxious stench of sugary sweetness that assaulted his nostrils. He narrowed his eyes and shielded his face with his hand, grimacing. No doubt, there had been an intruder of the wickedest heart.

A dark cloud fell over his face. Not only had someone been in there, they’d drenched his room in sugar. Couldn’t have been worse had it been glitter.

Bracing himself, he rolled his shoulders and, still covering his mouth, edged into the room, risking a closer look at the aftermath. He felt his heart plummet at the sight.

Law didn’t need to look at the signature on the door to know which imp had their sweet revenge and played tic-tac-toe all over his bed and desk, albeit with donuts. Donuts, of a colourful array, of a rainbow of flavours: chocolate-frosted, strawberry-frosted, blueberry, glazed, with and without sprinkles, jelly donuts, red velvet, and was that cheese? He stepped inside, careful to avoid the faint trail of sugar leading to the bed.

Yes, he did deserve this.

Law backtracked to the door and shut it. He leaned against the door and dropped his head back, closing his eyes. Then he pushed off the door and stole another glance inside. Dozens of donuts stared back. He closed the door and went to fetch the necessary items for cremation and decontamination. Minutes later, he returned and found Bepo standing outside his room, his nose held high and twitching.

“You smell that?” Bepo’s gaze swept over the cleaning equipment and trash bags carried in Law’s arms. “Did you kill someone?”

Law opened his room door, gestured inside. Bepo peered in and the fur stood up on his arms and the nape of his neck. His jaw dropped, and he stared agog. The donuts were beckoning to him, and for a moment, he was oblivious to everything going on around him, didn’t notice when Law sidestepped him into the room. His fingers itched with want, and a look of desire shone in his eyes, glued to the donuts glued to the bed.

“Have you been pranked?”

“A gift from Emil,” Law said. “It’s a secret code.”

Finally peeling his eyes away from the donuts, Bepo glanced around and saw ‘Your Satan’ written on the door. He scratched his head. “Is that a code too?”

“Everything here’s a code, and must be gotten rid of, so it stays a secret.”

With Bepo’s help, they stripped the sheets from the bed and pillow. The glue had, Law realised, seeped through into the mattress, and thus, he activated his Room, and switched the mattress with a discarded beer can on the dock. The sheets, beer can, and donuts, all were dumped into the trash bag to be incinerated later. Bepo grew more and more quiet as they cleaned, a regretful and apologetic look on his face, his posture slumping further with each donut he tossed in the bag. The donuts on the desk required acetone, which, even after spending half an hour searching the Tang, after waking every crew member from their sleep to ask if they had nail polish remover, they failed to find on-board. Law gathered his books, journals, and papers from the drawers, put aside the skull paperweight, the desk lamp, the mug, and his pens and ink, and disposed of the entire piece of furniture. It was old, he reasoned. He would have it replaced. Even if they managed to salvage the old desk, it would be a haunting presence, forever a painful reminder.

In total it took them a full hour to finish cleaning. Law had wanted to sweep and mop the floor, and to wipe down the surfaces to be extra thorough to remove all traces of sugar from his room. He’d declared his room to be anti-sweetness. He preferred it be returned to that natural state.

“Where are you going?” Bepo asked, when Law carried the trash bag out of his room.

“To start a fire,” Law said. All of it, up in flames, no single crumb of evidence could remain.

At least, that was the plan, but to save himself further hassle, he tossed rocks into the sea, and switched them with the trash bag, the mattress, and the donut-covered desk.

Law went back to his room, closed the door, and sank down onto the floor beside the empty, miserable bedframe. Perfectly fine with roughing it out, he was about to lie down, when he read the ‘Your Satan’ scribbled on the door. He heaved a drawn-out sigh, and flopped back with a thud.

The next time Emil and Law met, Law mentioned nothing.

If questioned, Law feigned ignorance that prank ever happened.

* * *

###  **5) @rping-with-tea-and-biscuits asked:**

"I have a deal I'd like to make with you." Emil placed a bottle of lavender body oil on Law's desk before sitting beside it herself. "I bought this new brand and I haven't massaged anyone in a while. I'm getting rusty." She cracked her fingers. "If you let me rub this all over you, I'll give you one small favour in return." She shrugged. "You can rub a doughnut all over me if so you chose. Or run some errand I suppose. Some one-off thing."

###  **Answered:**

His eyes flicked from the book in his hand to the bottle Emil placed on his desk, claiming she wanted to make a deal. It is poison, he thought. Or lotion. Why would a deal be made over lotion? On the other hand, with poison – or medication, as harmful if consumed in large draughts – perhaps she wanted him to administer it to her under certain…unfortunate circumstances in future. Given that her goal was to end her life, it would not be unthinkable she’d someday wish to opt for active voluntary euthanasia. He leaned in, however, and got a whiff of lavender. Turning the bottle, finally, he read the label.

Lavender oil? Perhaps it had deliberately been falsely labelled, the contents not as described. Far more curious was that she was offering a massage, and a favour. If he was to get a favour, especially the permission to rub a sugary doughnut all over her body, that could only suggest the massage would be as pleasant for him as it would be for Emil to have a chocolate-frosted doughnut rubbed up and down her front and back. Perhaps Emil had invented a new torture technique, and was keen on trying it on him first.

He had heard how she’d cracked her fingers. She would crack his spine the same way, wouldn’t she? He would be lying them, about to slip into bliss, when he would hear a terrible cracking that would have him slip into eternal bliss instead. Not to mention, if she had needles on standby, she could even succeed in paralysing him if she knew which nerves to stab. And he was confident in her knowledge of incapacitating.

Of course, Emil had had plentiful of chances to kill or maim him, and had not, despite everything that had transpired between them.

“Massages don’t work that way,” he said, shelving his suspicions aside. “You’re not supposed to rub the oil all over someone. For instance, oil does not go on the face and hair.” He closed his book and set it down. “But I’ll take the back massage. I’ve never heard of a front massage, so I don’t need oil all over my front either.” He leaned back against his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest while staring at her. Alas, the satisfaction of rubbing doughnuts over Emil had expired after the initial few attempts, and after she’d had her revenge, he didn’t think he could look at another doughnut for a while.

“And I don’t need a favour.” He added dryly, “But if you use your haki on me, I will flip you over. I want to relax, not to be unable to walk for life.” He didn’t think she would, and he was slightly jesting, but he figured he ought to mention it anyway, that he agreed to a massage, but without any usage of armament haki. “And…not here. The Caramel?” He stood up, ready to follow her. His back felt stiff, his shoulders tense. He remembered the first and only time he had a massage, and though he did not return, for the whole package was not quite what he expected, he remembered fleeing the parlor feeling lighter, relaxed, nonetheless.

In the Caramel, he took off his hoodie, but kept his jeans on, unless she told him to remove them for comfort, or some other reason. He lay down on the bed, in his boxers, on his stomach, his arms by his sides, and his cheek nestled against a pillow. Eventually, his eyelids drooped and fell shut, and he felt himself sink deeper into the mattress.

“When did you learn to massage?” he asked.

* * *

###  **6) @rping-with-tea-and-biscuits asked:**

“Hey, Law.” With an open tin of her oatmeal cookies in hand and a half-melted ice cube hidden in the same palm, Emil walked into the infirmary. “I’m gonna make a new batch of oatmeal cookies but since I have two left, I thought you might want them.” She stood right beside him, tilting her head as if looking at his work. She shifted the tin to the free hand and let the one armed in the ice drop behind Law’s back. “What are you doing? Oh, and do you have any request for the cookies? I have some nice dark chocolate, or I can add hazelnuts.”

While those were genuine questions, they were also a distraction - they were meant to pull Law’s attention before she runs her icy hand under his hoodie and shirt and up his back.

###  **Answered:**

Law grasped a tuft of long, blonde hair in one gloved hand, a scalpel wielded in his other. In the same way an artist was in the zone, focused only on the strokes of his brush, meticulously dabbing paint onto the canvas, losing all sense of time, impervious and unaware of aches or tiredness, Law was in his flow state, fully immersed, utterly absorbed, pleasantly engrossed in scalping John Does to the compositions of Beethoven’s magnum opuses that filled the infirmary.

Law was making cuts around the head and was oblivious to Emil’s entrance until he detected her presence materialising right beside him and startled slightly. It wasn’t so much out of guilt, worry, or shock, but he considered shoving the corpse off the table, or Shambling it someplace else, like Shachi’s room, for Law’s gift to Emil was supposed to be a surprise. He had learned about her hair fetish – learned, or inferred, take your pick – and had wanted to offer her the scalps of the corpses he had procured for…purely research purposes.

He figured Emil would enjoy having a variety of lengths and textures, for brushing her fingers through, for rubbing against her face and wherever else she liked to rub hair that was not her own, and thus, he had started working on the corpse with the long, blonde, curly hair after finishing with the Mr. short, black, and straight – the latter’s scalp sitting at the side, to be scraped clean of blood and flesh and put out to dry. Emil had been generous with massaging his scalp, and therefore Law would go a step further and lather the corpses’ hair with some nice lavender shampoo, wash it off, and comb it with care.

With only a brief sidelong glance at the almost empty tin of oatmeal cookies as an acknowledgment of Emil’s words, Law returned to his scalping with extra verve, making a few more semi-circular cuts and then gripping the hair, about to yank the scalp off, when he felt the icy coldness gliding up his back and he gave a slight start, causing a jerk of his hand, his back stiffening upright. Scalp dangling from the blonde locks in his hand, Law darted Emil a scowl, his lips pinched together in an expression of momentary exasperation. Then he dropped the scalp into a metal basin with the other scalp, replaced his scalpel in the kidney dish, and pulled off a glove to reach for an oatmeal cookie. Without stepping aside, he took a bite and chewed with quiet appreciation as he settled his gaze on Emil.

“Hazelnuts are fine,” he said. “I’ll try the dark chocolate too, if it’s added in small quantities.” Finishing off the cookie, he went over to the sink to wash his hands after removing the other glove. “Oh, those are for you.” He turned back to her, and went to fetch the basin of scalps, which he placed on the table in front of her. “I’ll clean and wash them first, and then you can play with them – or do whatever you want with them later.” A pause, and he added, “But I won’t stop you from touching them now, if you couldn’t wait to…’cop a feel’.” Deliberately, he gave her a knowing look. “One’s blonde, the other’s black, if you were wondering.”

* * *


End file.
